Page 39 of Sunny Side Up

eighteen

I awoke the next morning to an email from Zack’s assistant, with Zack and about twelve other people cc’d.

He’d sent an official offer inviting me to join his podcast. I bet you anything he’d had this kid schedule the email a week ago.

It was just like Zack to assume I’d say yes at drinks, to be honored and humbled by his offer.

Now that the soft focus of last night’s drinks and overwhelming nostalgia had cleared up, I was left trying to rectify how I felt about this…

honestly… humbling, eye-watering , shockingly impressive offer to join his stupid fucking podcast empire.

My PR self said this was a no-brainer: Take the money, take the opportunity, take the platform to help more women than you’ve ever dreamed of, and sign on that dotted line with a fat blue pen.

Whatever part of my brain it was that still craved his validation jumped up and down with excitement.

Luckily, the tiny sliver of my rational brain told me to wait a minute.

Gather my thoughts. I’d need my lawyer to look this over anyway.

I got knocked on my ass by a sinus infection two days later.

Never mind Zack’s offer: I’d eventually replied with a simple, professional “Thank you for sending, will review with my team and get back to you as soon as possible.” I was totally run-down with all the work leading up to the SONNY launch: endless fittings; nonstop coordination with our factory and distribution center; making sure the labels looked as luxe as the suits themselves (and weren’t itchy); giving feedback on the hangtags and the packaging; the prelaunch, buzz-driving PR and marketing.

Not to mention, balancing that little thing called my full-time role as the head and face of Le Ballon Rouge and navigating my other, newly appointed role as Michael and Ellie’s second wedding planner.

And feeding the perpetually hungry fire of Sunny Side Up . I couldn’t just… stop.

Nor could I stop sneezing, coughing, clearing the phlegm from the back of my scratchy throat. I couldn’t stop my head from POUNDING .

I’d been complaining all morning to Avery, who had unfortunately endured this spiel dozens of times since 9 a.m. I’d spent the day before in bed, suffering through the worst of the infection, until my antibiotics finally kicked in.

As a result, I’d never felt so far behind.

Every time I thought I had a handle on my inbox, a new email request came in.

Sunny Side Up had been mentioned in The New York Times Thursday Style section, where we were given a two-hundred-word write-up in a story titled, “The Newsletters That Are Rewriting the Rules of Old Guard Fashion.” (I bought twenty hard copies from my bodega and had the article framed immediately.) With it came a whole new slew of interview requests and media appearances.

I was overwhelmed. But in a good way, I guess? Then the phone rang, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Do you want to take Ted? He’s checking in again,” Avery said, phone to her ear.

“Sure, put him through,” I said, picking Ted’s line up on my headset. (Yes I have a headset. Let’s not make it a thing.)

“Hi Ted, dorry I haben’t been in duch lately.” I sounded like a cartoon.

“Oh no… you sound so sick! Poor thing.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Any better today?”

“Dominally,” I sniffled in reply, and took a second to blow my nose on mute, hoping it would make me sound less pitiful.

It did the trick. Pretty soon, the Sudafed would kick in, and then I’d be on crack.

“I’m hoping today’s the last of it though.

The Zabar’s basket you sent was massive and delicious and perfect.

You are so thoughtful. I’m so sorry I haven’t thanked you for it yet.

I’ve been alternating between sleep and work. ”

“Please do not worry about that. No thank you needed. I just want you to Get Well Soon.”

I rolled my eyes at that.

“Do you think you’ll be up for something this weekend?” he asked. “I want to see you.” Okay. Melted at that one. This man was so sexy it was almost inconvenient. But one look at my inbox and I knew the unfortunate answer.

I lowered my voice. “I want to see you, too.” Back to business volume: “But I’m drowning right now. Between SONNY and Le Ballon Rouge, I don’t see how I’m going to avoid working most of the weekend.”

Ted paused on the other line for longer than I felt comfortable with.

“I’m sorry, really,” I added, then regretted. Why was I sorry for working hard?

He sighed. “I know how much is on your plate. When you’re better, I’ll finally take you out again. And in the meantime, I’ll have my assistant drop off my special matzah ball soup from Sadelle’s. I had the chef make you a vegetarian version.”

He could be a little intense, I was learning, but he was caring. “Ted, that is so sweet. Thank you for doing that… so unnecessary, but I will take it.”

“Let’s talk later about budget updates for the launch event. I know you guys are booking talent, so I just want to make sure that’s accounted for.” Again, I wondered why Ted was so involved in the details but by now I knew.

“Yes! The deejay is all set—she’s doing it for trade. Zack arranged it, actually.”

There was a pause on the other line. “ Zack Zack? Your ex-husband Zack?” Whoa. He sounded super jealous.

I was nervous he had the wrong idea. But also: What was the right one?

Not that I would ever get back with Zack, but Ted and I weren’t exclusive.

I didn’t need any more drama with the men in my life right now.

Still, there was no reason to hide free help for SONNY.

Ted was a businessman; this was good business.

“Ha, yes. That Zack. The silver lining of running into him at the Knicks game was that he reached out to check in. Now he wants to support SONNY however he can.” I explained that Zack had been shockingly helpful, putting me in touch with this really cool deejay, Lady Luqq, who had a pretty major social media following.

She’d agreed to deejay in exchange for SONNY swimsuits and a total of five dedicated plugs in SSU that listed her summer deejay sets. I was thrilled .

Another pause, but then Ted replied. “Well, that’s generous. She sounds great. I like that you’re thinking ahead to a post-event press strategy.

“But if he gives you any trouble, send his team right over to me.” He cleared his throat.

“As your business partner, I just think you should know that I’m not thrilled with this.

I’d have preferred it if you spoke this over with me first. Nothing’s ‘free,’ including ‘trade.’ In fact, ‘trade’ is especially messy.

It’s JV, Sunny.” I could hear the strain in his voice, like he was trying not to raise it.

“I’d hate to see the SONNY launch become a female-audience-grab-bag-event for Zack.

I don’t like the idea of him having access to SONNY’s mailing list, customers, or audience. ”

“I hear you on the group discussion part,” I said, my throat raspy.

Did I, though? He was the investor. Not my creative partner.

“But being introduced to a deejay is event-related, not SONNY-business related. Any strings attached are between me and Lady Luqq. Zack won’t have any access to anything.

Him having access to my mailing lists and customers—that doesn’t even make sense. ”

“That doesn’t make sense ?” Now—now the volume turned up.

“You’re being naive, Sunny. This isn’t make-believe designer playtime, this isn’t bikini dress-up with Barbie.

If you’re going to treat this like some casual, bored-housewife hobby, or some Gen-Z ‘side hustle,’ we’re going to have a major problem here. ”

“Uh, whoa, okay, first of all: casual, bored-housewife hobby?” Did he realize how misogynistic that sounded? How reductive?

Ted cleared his throat again. “I wasn’t describing you, but it is a pattern I’ve seen when some friend-of-a-friend introduces me to their tennis partner because she wants to ‘pick my brain’ about starting a line of organic something-or-other—”

“Whoa, whoa. Where is this coming from?” I asked. I was pissed.… But also, toxic side of my brain: Was this our first fight?

Pissed took over.

I’d never heard him this condescending, or this controlling.

Up until now he’d been so trusting of my instincts.

That was such a large part of why working with him had been so easy.

Up until now, he hadn’t made me feel like I was a monkey who needed to dance for the Money Guy.

Which—as I knew from my own clients who took on outside funding—was rare .

“First of all, I already own and run my own business. My own lucrative business, mind you, which I built from the ground up, on my own, with no outside funding, no investors.” Now I could hear my own voice rising, sandpaper against my sore throat.

“Second of all, these kinds of holistic partnerships, this kind of press strategy, this is what I do every single day for a living.”

“You’re right,” he said, waving the white flag. “I’m—that was out of line, Sunny. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was. “My throat is killing me, though. Can I call you back a little later?”

“Sounds good,” he said. Business Voice. Click.

Avery was focusing on her computer screen with such dedicated fervor that I knew she’d overheard that whole thing.

She normally worked with noise-canceling headphones on, and I often took calls on my walks outside.

But today, of all days, she’d left her headphones at home, and there was no way I was getting out of my chair. Not unless I gave in and went home.

Instead, my phone rang again. This time it was my cell, and Dennis’s name flashed on my screen. It felt like my body was the rope in a tug-of-war game, being pulled in all these directions by different men.

I blew my nose before answering, so that I’d sound somewhat normal, and answered on the third ring. “Hi!”